


Intended for Another

by cadoganwest



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV First Person, POV Molly Hooper, Series Spoilers, Some Humor, Some angst, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadoganwest/pseuds/cadoganwest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper has a terrible crush on Sherlock, but eventually she realizes that he was really intended to be with someone else...and so was she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intended for Another

**Author's Note:**

> This story is compliant with, and thus has spoilers for, all of the first three Sherlock series. It's the first story of any kind I've ever written, so please be gentle. :o)

I may not be able to tell you the precise moment when my infatuation with Sherlock Holmes became a problem: something more than a silly school-girl crush, falling somewhere short of  obsession but still--problematic--but I can tell you when it all started. It began the day Mike Stamford introduced us at St. Bart’s. 

 

“Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective--”

 

“ Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected tersely.

 

“Right. And he needs--” Mike began again, but was quashed once more.

 

“I need brain tissue. The fresher, the better. A murderer’s ability to strike again may depend on it. It doesn’t have to be a complete brain, but enough for samples for at least a dozen microscope slides.”

 

I don’t think I heard one word in three that he said, and in fact had to try to reconstruct what had just been said from context as I tried to force my mind back online. The bowl I was holding began to slide out of my hands, the coiled entrails within precariously close to spilling to the floor.

 

Suddenly,  my entrails felt precariously close to spilling to the floor.

 

It wasn’t that he was so classically movie-star gorgeous or anything, but he was the most  interesting looking person I’d ever seen. My first impression was that he was very tall, but I realized quickly that his presence in the room made him seem taller than he was. All of his clothing was impeccable; any one piece of it, from the fitted-looking black shirt to the charcoal wool coat looked like it cost as much as my wardrobe combined. But he would have been brilliant in anything. It was his eyes, that voice, that had me suddenly unable to behave like a functional adult.

 

I couldn’t take my eyes from his face or manage to stammer an answer for long seconds. The time seemed to stretch  endlessly. I prayed that the floor would open up and take me. That someone would see my embarrassment and say something kind to break the tension, that--

 

“Is something wrong with you? Perhaps you heard me say this was a matter of some importance?” Sherlock asked. “Are you unwell?” There was no particular note of concern for me in his voice, more of impatience that my being ill might impede his investigation. A sane person might have, at this point, been brought back to earth, but sadly, no. Sane apparently isn’t one of my strong points.

 

I did, however manage to shake it off just slightly. Enough to manage actual speech. “Fine. I’m fine. Stood up a bit too quickly, perhaps. Hello, Mike. Pleased to meet you, Sherlock. Sorry.” Mike smiled at me with a tight, knowing smile. I tried to smile back. I don’t think I made it too convincing. How had I not ever noticed what a smug bastard Mike was before? However, Mike had brought this wonderful creature to the morgue. Did I love Mike right now or hate Mike? Hard to decide...

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. Well. The brains.”

 

~~~

 

After that, Sherlock was a frequent visitor at Bart’s, always either wanting something or working in the lab. Those times were both the worst and the best. It should have been clear that he wasn’t interested in me, in hindsight, but I was mad about him. I could not stop staring at him.

 

I would watch him as he sat at a microscope and would  will him to look at me so that I could see his eyes (Playing the mental game of deciding what his eyes most reminded me of, and comparing them to things was a game for when I didn’t actually have him  in the room with me.) I watched him breathe. Imagined my hands running flat over his chest, feeling it rise and fall. Dreamed of my fingers through his gorgeous curls. And those lips! The things I just  knew they could do. I thought of tracing my thumb along the bottom lip, then the top, and then putting my lips on his softly, softly…

 

“Molly.” He said it without looking up.

 

I jumped. “Oh! Yes?” 

 

“Pass me that other petri dish.”

 

The petri dish in question was  right next to him . Why couldn’t he just get it himself? Was this a signal? This was the kind of thing the magazines told you to look for in articles with titles like “Seven Signs that He Wants YOU!” Was this just a ploy to get me closer to him? My heart was suddenly in my throat. “Of course Sherlock! Anything you like! Can I get you anything else, anything at all?”

 

This made him look up, but I could see the derision in his eyes. “No, that will be all, Molly.” He put his eyes back to the microscope’s eyepieces.

 

“Oh. Ok.” I tried to force cheerfulness. I stood where I was, close to him for a few moments more, until he looked up again, the look of dismissal clear. I was bothering him. “Oh.” I said again, and went back to where I had been pretending not to watch him before.

 

~~~

 

Things went on pretty much in this manner for what felt like a long time. I found myself more and more unable to work in his presence. I thought maybe he really just didn’t know how I felt, maybe he was just as clueless as he seemed to be about the subtle and not-so-subtle signals I’d tried to send. Maybe Sherlock just needed a push. Either way, I could not go on this way much longer without risking my sanity. I had to know if there was any chance. I decided that I had to bring things to a crisis. I tried asking him out for coffee. It was a disaster.

 

He came into the morgue to beat a corpse with a riding crop. A bit intimidating, that, asking one’s crush on a date while he’s holding a riding crop, ever-so-slightly flushed, skin sheened with sweat from exertion ( ohgod ), shirt open at the throat ( ohdeargod ). This was particularly intimidating since this was decidedly  not the attitude in which I was used to seeing him. Especially when flushed and sweaty from exertion ( ohgodohgod ) was  exactly the sort of attitude in which I was  hoping to see him eventually ( ohgodbreatheohgod ). But I digress. The point is, I felt like I was already off my game before beginning. Since this wasn’t the usual Sherlock-calmly-seated-at-the-microscope-or-computer I was used to encountering, it seemed really unfair to have to begin this way.

 

“So, bad day was it?” I asked and smiled, trying to hide my near-panic.

 

He wasn’t having it, I could tell immediately. “I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

 

Now or never. Go for broke. “Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you’re finished…”

 

“You’re wearing lipstick. You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

 

Oh. Oh, Goddamn it. Nope,this was not going to go the way I was hoping, but I was going to soldier on anyway. I’m an optimist, after all.

 

“I, uh, I refreshed it a bit.”

 

He gave me an arch look, and said, “Sorry, you were saying?”

 

I went on, with somewhat less enthusiasm than before, “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee?”

 

Sherlock’s answer was brisk. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.” He breezed off.

 

Insult was added to injury later, when, while in the lab with Mike Stamford and John Watson, Sherlock commented on my lack of lipstick and how my mouth is not as attractive without it. Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more mortified. What’s with Mike and the introductions, anyway? 

 

I remembered thinking that John Watson seemed like a nice enough guy, and wondering what Sherlock would be like with a flatmate, and how long it would take for Sherlock to scare him off. Even at my most besotted, I couldn’t imagine what Sherlock would be like to live with twenty-four hours a day.

 

~~~

 

After the day I thought of henceforth as Riding Crop Catastrophe Wednesday (RCCW), I knew better than to ask Sherlock out ever again  as such , but I still pined after him like a lovesick puppy. I tried to date other men, but that was mostly a flop. There was Jim, but as Sherlock so helpfully pointed out, that was destined to go nowhere. Visible underwear and hair product indeed. That turned out to be the  least of the issues with “Jim from IT.”

 

Sherlock began playing the game of being kind to me only when he needed something from me at Bart’s, and as a bloody  doctor for crying out loud, I should have been smart enough to see through him, but I never, ever was, until it was too late.

 

There was the incident of the Christmas Party at 221B, or what I later thought of as the Highly Educational Christmas Party of Shame (HECPoS). Another moment of crisis. I was again, approaching desperation. However, this was the pivotal moment when I began to see that Sherlock was not only  really  not interested in me, he was possibly involved with someone else (this turned out to be a moot point) and maybe had at least  one  other pretty important person interested in  him .

 

I started looking back in October for Sherlock’s gift, until I finally found the perfect thing--a beautiful hand-made violin Christmas ornament for his Christmas tree. I wrapped it with care, looking for tasteful paper, and knowing that he would appreciate neat work, I tied a pretty bow on it. I hoped he would see all of the effort that went into it, all of the attention (little did I know how spectacularly this would all backfire on me).

 

My own preparations of self were no less meticulous. I poured myself into a firecracker of a dress, and tried to go for just the right balance of makeup. Tonight was the night. Tonight  had to be the night. It just   had   to be. 

 

When I came into the flat, I could see that I was  way  overdressed. Sherlock, as usual, was dressed somewhat formally, but since he was always dressed that way, it meant nothing. Everyone else was casual. Everyone’s eyes were on me. I was suddenly so nervous, I wanted to back right out the door.

 

Sherlock came forward and began a heartless series of deductions about me and my gift. The Christmas lights hanging in the flat expanded and blurred in my vision as tears filled my eyes.

 

~~~

 

There are certain images in my mind of that Highly Educational Christmas Party of Shame (HEPCoS)  that manage to break through the haze of humiliation and disappointment; fragments of conversation that I was able to piece into context later and make sense of, analyze and remember. There was so much to think about. However, as absurdly as I may have been behaving just lately, first and foremost, I am a scientist, and I should try to remember that once upon a time before I met Sherlock, I had a rational mind. So.

 

First of all. 

 

Regarding Sherlock and Irene Adler:

 

1\. How  was Sherlock able to identify her by...not her face? That tight smile in response, from Mycroft Holmes. There’s only one obvious answer to the question. I suppose there  are other possibilities, but how likely are they, really, unless I’m kidding myself? And haven’t I spent long enough doing  that now? But anyway, come back to this because...well, come back to it. It’s out of order.

 

2\. The text. That tone. A woman’s cry, a sexual cry. The way Sherlock  raced to the mantel to get a gift that was there, then he left the room. A gift from a woman then. From whom? From Irene? Who else? Surely he was affected, in a way I have certainly never affected him, despite his conciliatory kiss on the cheek of just moments before.

 

3\. Going back further...he was x-raying a phone that day in the lab and said or implied that there was a woman who sent it to his flat and that she liked to do silly things. He’d behaved like it was ridiculous to say that she was his girlfriend based on the the facts at hand, but given all this evidence...well…

 

4\. Back to Point One. He could identify her based on her naked body. However, also back to Point One--the woman is now dead. So whatever had been there, if something ever  was there, it’s rather decidedly over.

 

Another However--and this brings me to a whole new set of points, building off Point Two.  Given the end result of Point Four (which is mostly the same as Point One), it’s probably more important, and it’s something perhaps I ought to have noticed prior to the HEPCoS, but had  not , but once I had , well…

 

Regarding John Watson and Sherlock:

 

1\. The text. That tone. A woman’s cry, a sexual cry. And then? John Watson’s startling reaction. He said “That makes 57? Of those texts? The ones I’ve heard.” And then Sherlock, on his way to the mantel to get the gift, “Thrilling that you’ve been counting,” in that tone he uses when he’s trying to shut down further discussion. John, however, seemingly unable to restrain himself, called out after Sherlock “Do you ever reply?”

 

Now.

 

Normally it’s  Sherlock who doesn’t realize when he’s said a thing that’s not  quite standard. And then he doesn’t realize everyone in the room is feeling awkward. Or he  does realize it ,  and he looks to John, and says “Not good?” to find out how bad it was.  At John’s outburst everyone in the room exchanged uncomfortable looks again, just like they had after Sherlock’s horrible remarks to me when he deduced over my present, but this time it was because John had sounded like a jealous lover about Sherlock’s orgasmic text tone and its apparent frequency. And John had done this  right in front of his girlfriend Jeanette.  Furthermore, he’d either not realized how it was going to sound, or had been in so much emotional turmoil that he couldn’t help himself. And I may not know him very well, but if there’s one thing John Watson generally seems to me, it’s controlled.

 

Ok. So it’s just  one point. But I noticed that after the HEPCoS I never heard of Jeanette again, for one thing. It was just the beginning of my slow realization that Sherlock was never going to be mine, because he was never intended for me at all but for someone else. And I had to begin the slow business of getting over him.

 

~~~

 

Looking back it was plain to see the difference in how Sherlock treated John compared with the way he treated me. With the way he treated  everybody else really, not just me.

 

I wasn’t special when it came to Sherlock.

 

That  John Watson was a special case in every regard ought to have been obvious to me from the day Mike first brought him to Bart’s and Sherlock first met him. Otherwise, how could John have lived with him? 

 

And after the incident with the text? Well, suddenly I saw more than close friendship in what John felt for Sherlock. 

 

Frequently, John and Sherlock would come to the lab or the morgue at Bart’s to work on cases. I spent a regrettable amount of my time watching the two of them instead of working on my own job, trying to catch John watching Sherlock. John would be doing some task in the lab or on the laptop, and his eyes would be drawn to Sherlock again and again as his attention would wander from his work. John’s eyes would go to Sherlock’s face, or his hair, or his hands, or would run up and down Sherlock’s body...or John’s eyes would go unfocused and seem to be seeing nothing at all.

 

Oh, I knew exactly what John was doing, because I had done this very thing, for months on end. Watching, trying not to get caught, but also kind of  wanting   to get caught, fantasising, agonising. I felt for John, really. I still really kind of felt it for Sherlock myself, sometimes, if I wasn’t on my guard. Often I could manage to watch John watching, but sometimes John would look up and see me watching him, and then I would have to quickly get back to work, pretending to have been minding my own business all along. 

 

As time went on, however, things began to shift slightly. Not only was John watching Sherlock, the kind of longing I used to feel clear to see on John’s face, but now, when John wasn’t looking,  Sherlock was watching  John with this look of terrible sadness. It wasn’t an expression I’d ever seen on Sherlock before; really, Sherlock had always been so careful to appear as if he’d never had an emotion in his life beyond exasperation or wry amusement that it went even more to my heart. 

 

Why did he look at John that way? What was he thinking? Did he also have feelings for John? I mean, obviously he must care about John, but I meant feelings  that way that he thought John wouldn’t return? Surely he couldn’t think that. How could he possibly live with John and  not see what was so obvious to me? Or was it only obvious to me because three months ago I’d been in John’s very predicament (well, not exactly)? But no, Sherlock’s look didn’t look like that sort of look.  Is there something--Oh. Oh God. Something is  wrong with him. That must be it. Something is wrong with Sherlock and he doesn’t know how to tell John. I just knew it.

 

I gathered my courage and asked Sherlock about it, and he tried to rebuff me, just like I knew that he would. I told him that I thought there was something wrong, something that made him look at John like he was sad when he knew that John couldn’t see him. I thought to myself, well, if I can’t be what I once wanted to be to Sherlock, maybe I can at least be his friend. He seemed disconcerted at the idea. I was really beyond thinking he could want even that from me at that point, and told him so, telling him I realized that I don’t really count. 

 

Suddenly, I couldn’t stand to hear him cut me down again, and my courage was gone. I fled.

 

Later, I was gathering my things to leave for the night, and I turned, and there he was. Sherlock, his expression open, childlike. “You’re wrong, you know. You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you. But you were right. I’m not ok.” His voice cracked on the words as if tears were close. 

 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” I was ready to do anything, anything at all. My own eyes filled instantly in response to the pain in his voice. 

 

“Molly, I think I’m going to die.”

 

“What do you need?”

 

“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything that  I think I am, would you still want to help me?” Sherlock asked, that same nearly broken expression on his face. I could feel the tears about to fall from my own eyes, making it hard to see him. How could he ask? He had been just about as unkind to me as a person could be, and I had come back for more. He was going to approach me now for help, tell me he was possibly dying, speak to me softly and tell me I mattered and expect me  to leave him out in the cold?

 

That would never happen.

 

“What do you need?”

 

He came closer. “You.”

 

~~~

 

Trust Sherlock to bring the drama. There probably wasn’t a way he could have asked me for help that I would have refused him, after all. It really wasn’t necessary to ask me in a way that sounded like he was asking me to elope with him or something. 

 

But help him I did. I helped him with his Fall. I got Sherlock the body from the morgue that looked like him from the Moriarty case with the two children and the mercury-tainted sweets. I took him into my flat to hide until the media coverage died down a bit before he departed for...well, wherever it was he went for those two years he was gone. He said that Mycroft would have hidden him, but that there was no way Sherlock was submitting himself to dealing with weeks of Mycroft and his minions, and he said that he preferred not to be entirely alone. I guess I should feel privileged that I’m better than being alone or under the thumb of the British Government.

 

Despite his stated wish for company, during the weeks following the Fall but before he disappeared, Sherlock barely spoke at all. One evening while we were eating take-away Chinese in my living room I tried to talk to him about his funeral, but he wouldn’t hear of it. 

 

I began “Sherlock, at your funeral--”

 

“No!” Sherlock cut me off, surprising me by nearly shouting, then with more control, “I don’t want to know anything about it.”

 

“Sherlock, it’s about John,” I tried again, putting aside my plate. I was no longer hungry.

 

“Molly! Especially not about John. I really don’t want to know. Please just respect my wishes on this.” Sherlock also seemed to have lost his appetite, not that he had eaten much of anything as far as I could see the entire time he’d been at my flat, despite all my efforts to feed him regular meals.

 

Unwilling to give up, I persisted, “Does he really have to be kept in the dark about all of this? Isn’t there some way--?” 

 

“He  must not know . It’s for his own protection. Molly. Molly!  He must never, ever know. We have been over this before and you know how I feel about repeating myself. The entire point of this ruse was for John’s protection. It will all be for nothing if he finds out. His very life depends upon your silence. Molly, I need your word,” Sherlock was closer to rage than I’d ever seen him. 

 

“All right, Sherlock. You have it. It’s just. You haven’t seen him. He’s just so…”

 

“NO!” He thundered, pulling both hands into his hair, and leaving the sofa he’d been sitting on to pace the room angrily. “I just  said I didn’t want to  know! ”

 

He slammed out of the flat without disguising himself in any way. I worried for hours until he returned well after midnight, wordlessly curling himself on my sofa to sleep, looking like a well-dressed comma, not having bothered to change.

 

~~~

 

After that, Sherlock would come and go only sporadically. He seemed...ok. Not great. Much too thin. One time I came home from Bart’s to find him on my sofa asleep, and there he slept for the next twenty-six hours. He woke up, took a shower, changed, thanked me, and was gone.

 

He never stayed for more than a day or two at a time, and he never spoke to me much. Once or twice he reminded me of the need for secrecy. After the first year, the visits stopped. I worried about him constantly.

 

~~~

 

But not as much as I worried about John Watson.

 

From the very beginning, I’d at least been grateful that John hadn’t insisted on identifying Sherlock’s body. I knew Sherlock had been a little concerned about the possibility that John might suspect trickery, and had planned for it; he wanted to make sure that John couldn’t tell he’d faked his death when he came to identify his corpse. 

 

In the event that John insisted on a personal identification, an elaborate scheme had been cooked up to deface the poor stand-in corpse beyond recognition and plant a note with it to make it look like Moriarty’s associates had snuck into the morgue somehow and done the deed out of a desire for further revenge. Thus John would not be able to tell it wasn’t really Sherlock’s body. And really, how much worse would that have made things for poor John? For John to have to think Sherlock’s remains had been mutilated after death, because just discrediting Sherlock and driving him to suicide wasn’t enough? And because the whole thing playing out right in front of John wasn’t  agonizing enough? Thank God we’ll never have to know, because John never even asked to view the body. John hadn’t asked because he was in  no condition to ask.

 

Oh yes. Sherlock had planned everything. Thirteen possible scenarios on the roof. Then each of those scenarios likewise planned down to the most minute detail. 

 

Clearly what Sherlock  hadn’t planned for was the utter devastation of John Watson in the aftermath. There was no way on earth that John could have handled identifying Sherlock’s body that day. In retrospect, we were probably all lucky that John had not just blown his own head off before another day had dawned. I would bet my life he’d done more than just consider it. 

 

John was entirely dry-eyed and stoic at the funeral. He did not voluntarily speak to anyone. He blinked among the flower arrangements as if he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. He sat calmly with his hands folded in his lap next to Mrs. Hudson during the service. He answered people who spoke to him in monosyllables or not at all. He stood at rigid attention at the graveside. His face was the most hopeless, despairing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. For the first time, I started wondering if I was doing the right thing; I knew Sherlock said that John’s life depended on my silence. But now I was wondering if instead his life depended on my speaking up.

 

~~~

 

My path didn’t cross John’s much now that Sherlock didn’t bring him to Bart’s anymore. I went to see him about a month after the funeral. If you’re wondering why it took me that long, it’s because I was dithering. What in the world could I possibly say to him? My conscience wouldn’t allow me to stay away any longer. Eventually, he moved out of 221B. I suppose the memories were too much. But this was before that. Actually he hadn’t moved much at all yet, that I could see. I rang the bell, and nobody answered at first. Finally Mrs. Hudson let me in.

 

“Oh, hello, It’s lovely to see you Molly dear,” Mrs. Hudson said.

 

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson, I’m here to see John. Is he in?” I asked.

 

“Oh, where else would he be? Why don’t you come into my flat for a bit first so we can talk, hmm?” she whispered.

 

“Uh, sure.”

 

“He’s not getting on well, at all,” Mrs. Hudson said in hushed tones as she put on the kettle. “Poor dear just sits in that chair all day. I’m not sure if he’ll want to see you and you shouldn’t take it personally if he doesn’t. Some days he’s just not up to seeing guests. He just sits and stares, as if he’s still seeing  him ...somewhere.” It was as if she couldn’t bring herself to speak Sherlock’s name. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes went bright with tears, and mine stung a bit in sympathy. Poor John. Poor Mrs. Hudson. This was so much harder than I thought it would be, keeping this secret and watching everyone else suffer for it. 

 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” I sighed. “Has John been back to work?” I wasn’t sure if I was pushing into what wasn’t my business, but was genuinely concerned and more than a little alarmed. After all, it had been a month.

 

“No dear. He mostly just sits. I try to make sure he eats. For the first couple of weeks, even that was more than we could manage. He doesn’t cry…when I can see him. But.” Now Mrs. Hudson’s tears spilled over. “Molly, do excuse me. It’s still so hard. We just miss him so much. There will never be anyone like him ever again, will there? Never. Not for any of us, John or me, or you. But John especially. I knew they had something special, but this! Oh Molly, will John ever be right again do you think? He’s just not getting any better.”

 

“I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson.” I put my arms around her, and tried to offer what comfort I could. I felt like a horrible fraud.

 

~~~

 

In the end, John agreed to see me, but the visit was stilted and short. John sat in his chair and spoke to me like a person under heavy sedation. I felt strange sitting in what had always been “Sherlock’s chair,” so I sat on the sofa instead. John’s eyes kept wandering back to the other chair, or going unfocused and I could tell he really just wanted me gone. I was so weighed down with lies and guilt and the fear of letting something slip by accident that I could hardly speak, and now I also had the new and growing fear that John was not going to recover from the depression he was in. I wished him well, told him to take care of himself. Told him that if there was anything I could do to let me know.

 

Except that I knew there  was  something I could do. The only thing that could actually help him, and I could, yet couldn’t  do it. 

 

What was maybe even worse was this:

 

I had  known . I’d known before Sherlock planned his Fall that John was almost certainly in love with him. Should I have spoken? Would it have changed the way Sherlock executed his plans? Because it was obvious now, even to me, that this was a major oversight in Sherlock’s planning. Mr. Big Brain saw, but in this case certainly had  not observed.

 

Having failed to tell Sherlock what proved in hindsight to be vital information  then , should I tell John  now that Sherlock was still alive? But what if Sherlock was right, and my telling John somehow put his life in mortal danger?

 

Oh, I wished I had the answers. I would say I wished I had never gotten mixed up in this, but that wouldn’t be true. I don’t see how I could have done anything other than what I did. I could not do anything other than act when Sherlock asked me to help him, and I’d never wish away my part in saving his life, or John’s, Greg’s and Mrs. Hudson’s. I just wish there was something I could do to help take away all of this pain.

 

~~~

 

Finally, finally after what seemed like forever, Sherlock returned from the “dead.” I can’t even tell you how relieved I was to be through with the lies. John was angry with me at first, I think, but at least I no longer had it on my conscience. I didn’t understand why Sherlock didn’t explain his full reasons for the Fall to John, but fine. At least it was no longer really my problem, was it?

 

~~~

 

But again there was a shift. John was at this point engaged to be married. Obviously Sherlock somehow managed to cock up his reunion scene with John, bursting into John’s very proposal to Mary, being completely insensitive to John’s grief while Sherlock was “dead.” If only Sherlock had allowed me to explain the extent to which John was wrecked by Sherlock’s “death,” then perhaps…

 

Well…

 

Obviously there were so many communication problems here. You know what? It just wasn’t my place, was it? Sherlock made that crystal clear. It really wasn’t my affair to meddle into.

 

I almost couldn’t have been more surprised when Sherlock asked me to accompany him on his cases one day shortly after his return. It seemed that Greg Lestrade needed Sherlock’s help, and John...well, in Sherlock’s words, was “no longer in the picture.” Sherlock needed a partner. I was sad for Sherlock, but more than a little concerned for myself. I was newly engaged to Tom, and things were going well...really well, in fact, and I didn’t really want to mess it all up by going and falling for Mr. Sexy Sociopath all over again.

 

Once we started working that day it seemed like a real possibility. I couldn’t decide at first if it was my imagination, but he seemed definitely... nicer or something. I was sure that it wasn’t just me when I caught the odd looks that Greg was giving Sherlock every time he let an opportunity to say something sarcastic slip by on the crime scene and he didn’t take it, when he seemed to actually be  polite to us. Sherlock was actually  considerate of our feelings . He even said once that he  didn’t want to insult our intelligence. I will admit, I got a little weak in the knees. 

 

However, I also noticed, and couldn’t help another pang of sadness for him, hearing him mutter at some unseen companion under his breath. Whomever he was talking to did not sound like a friendly person. “Shut up!” and “Go away.” were the kinds of things he was saying to the person in his head. I hoped his mind wasn’t on John as much as I suspected it might be, but my hopes were proven unfounded when he called me “John,” before we left the scene.

 

By the end of the day, I knew one thing--this wasn’t going to work at all long-term, for either of us. It wouldn’t do for me to fall for Sherlock again, and he definitely had some issues of his own to work out. I was no John Watson.

 

~~~

 

I had another of these small epiphanies about Sherlock’s state of mind when he approached me in the lab to help him prepare for John’s stag night, handed me the picture of John’s smiling face pasted to the Vitruvian Man, and asked me for help to calculate the precise ratio of drink that would keep them in the “sweet spot” for a night out on the town, pub-crawling everywhere they’d found a body. It was sentimental, for Sherlock. Sweet even. The entire conversation seemed oddly out of character. But the real lightning bolt was the wedding itself. That best-man speech. And then “It’s always you, John Watson, you keep me right.”

 

After Sherlock played his waltz for the bride and groom, I saw the three of them there, talking, and then I saw John and Mary dance away from him. I continued to watch Sherlock for a moment, and saw the pain on his face. This wasn’t  just a look of sadness like the ones he gave John before the Fall. It wasn’t  just a look full of desire, like the ones that John had given to Sherlock in the lab before that.

 

It was both of those things put together, and it was devastating to see. I am sure Sherlock had no idea he was broadcasting such a thing, and thankfully no one else seemed to notice it. 

 

At some point, Sherlock had fallen in love with John, and now it was too late.

 

I watched helplessly as Sherlock left the wedding reception, pulling his Belstaff around him, and flipping his collar up against the wind despite the warmth of the mid-May evening. I tried to enjoy the rest of my date with Tom, but really, while he’s cute and all, he’s really kind of boring outside the bedroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen pass between Sherlock and John. I know I’ve never looked at Tom that way, and he’s never looked at me that way either. I sighed. I knew I was going to have to break it off with him. It just wasn’t enough.

 

~~~

 

“How  dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?” I said, voice shaking, “And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you’re sorry.” Sherlock’s response was to go on the offensive about my broken engagement with Tom. For once I was not having his crap. 

 

Their conversation went on all around me, and I couldn’t really even listen to them anymore after I’d told John what he wanted to know about Sherlock’s drug status. I was too heavy-hearted. Could I have possibly prevented this by telling one or the other of them what I knew about their feelings for each other? Just a hint, or telling one of them  Look, the two of you really need to talk. Really . 

 

But. 

 

John was  married .

 

Sherlock  claimed over and over that this...this...whatever  this was with the drugs had to do with a case, but I wasn’t so sure.

 

How was it that I was the  only  person who seemed to see the thing that was right in front of all of us? Sherlock and John were clearly in love, and their not being together had been destructive to both of them (and frankly, to plenty of others, if one wanted to count all of the people who kept getting caught up in the middle of their not-love-affair) for years and years now.

 

First, there was my worry that John was going to kill himself after Sherlock’s Fall. Then I was worried that Sherlock was going to kill himself with drugs. How many near-misses with death should I stand by and watch while these two failed to get it together and kept not figuring it out?

 

But now there was the baby. It was more than just adults being affected here. That was the thing that decided me to just keep my mouth shut and stay out of it. That, and it not being any of my business and Sherlock and John both being grown men who should handle their own affairs. Even if they  were  both clearly idiots.

 

~~~

 

It turned out that I hardly had to worry about the drugs killing Sherlock, since someone with a gun nearly did the job instead. I have only the most sketchy idea of what happened with the whole Magnussen affair. By this time I was much less involved with all of what was happening. Apparently--although I find this very difficult to credit...Sherlock was having a torrid affair with Magnussen’s P.A. Janine, the maid of honor at John’s wedding. There was some kind of case involving Magnussen, Sherlock got shot (how could he  not know who shot him? The wound was on the front!), Janine sold her affair story to the tabs, poor Sherlock was out of and then back into hospital…

 

And then Sherlock shooting Magnussen, Sherlock’s departure (I never got to say goodbye, so I’m so glad it was short) and sudden return with the “return” of Moriarty…

 

About that, by the way. I’m sure everyone’s wondering.I didn’t personally handle Moriarty’s remains when he “died.” I was so wrapped up with dealing with Sherlock and his plans after the Fall, that I actually have no idea what happened to the body of Moriarty, or if it was indeed actually  Moriarty’s body. It’s entirely possible that records could have been falsified or any number of different scenarios could have taken place to falsify his death and I would have never known. I had 13 different  Sherlock Holmes related scenarios to keep straight, after all, and one Lazarus with many minute details to actually carry out. That was quite enough to be going on with, without considering that a criminal mastermind might be concurrently faking his own suicide at the same hospital. Really, if  Sherlock hadn’t considered it could be happening, how could anyone fault me…

 

~~~

 

I finally saw Sherlock again two weeks after his return from “exile.” He was investigating a murder. He didn’t want to tell me anything about it, but I could tell he was agitated, much more so than he normally was. Clinical detachment was a hallmark of his working style, so much so that it was chilling at times, and I knew that it had often been a bone of contention between him and John. Which, come to think of it, they’d been back on cases together for a while now…

 

“Where  is John today?” I asked.

 

“Working.” Sherlock barked tersely. 

 

“Shame he couldn’t get away to come with you. Looks like an important one.”

 

A noncommittal grunt was my only reply. Really, now I was kind of dying of curiosity. I went back to my paperwork. About an hour later Greg Lestrade came in. 

 

“Molly, Sherlock, hello.”

 

“Hi, Greg, how are you?” I replied, happy for a reason to abandon my reports.

 

“How did you find me here?” Sherlock said by way of greeting, “Do you have news?”

 

“Lucky guess, when you weren’t at home. Sherlock, you weren’t answering your calls or texts,” Greg replied.

 

“So what’s the case?” I asked Greg. I knew it wasn’t fair to do it that way, bypass Sherlock like that, but really. I’d been kept in the dark for so long about so many things, and  everyone talks around me like I’m some piece of furniture. I keep smiling, but I actually get pretty sick of it. 

 

“Molly--” Sherlock said in a warning tone.

 

“Well, really, Sherlock you can’t expect her not to want to know. Double, er, triple? Murder. A man and a pregnant woman, late-term,” Greg said.

 

“Ok,” I said, “I can see why that would be upsetting.”

 

“No, not exactly,” Greg said to me gently, “Without getting into too much detail, the scene was set up, the  bodies were staged to look like the Watsons. The whole thing was a message to Sherlock, and we think the Watsons may be in danger.”

 

I drew in my breath sharply, and said nothing, sorry now that I had pried.

 

Greg continued speaking, now to Sherlock. “Look, you’ve been working on this case for three straight days, and I’m going to guess by the looks of you that you’ve neither eaten nor slept. You know there is nothing to find. He’s too careful. You’re never going to find him this way,”

 

“There has to be something,” Sherlock said, and I could hear his voice beginning to shake on the last word.

 

“We’ve been here before. He’ll be found when he wants to be found, and not a minute before. Now don’t you think it’s time to tell John about this?”

 

“I’d rather he didn’t have to worry, and I know he won’t want to go to a safe house. He must not be put into the direct line of fire if it can be avoided. I don’t want him to go after Moriarty himself. I wanted to neutralize the threat so that it wouldn’t be necessary to tell him.”   


“But that’s not happening, is it.”

 

“I suppose not. If there was just some way for me to make contact with Moriarty so that…”

 

Greg interrupted him, growing angry now, “So that what, you can go on another suicide mission? Haven’t you had enough of that? Can we please try to find another way this time? Because I think we may have all had enough of mourning you by now. I have. I bet Molly over there has. And I know for sure that John Watson has. Christ Almighty, I was sure we were going to lose him too. You’re not exactly helping him by dying, you know, even if you think you are.”

 

“What--what are you talking about, lose him too? Saving him was the entire point. And he has Mary now. And who said anything about a suicide mission?” Sherlock was nearly sputtering.

 

“Mary,” Greg nearly scoffed. “I’m not talking about Mary. I’m sure he loves Mary, sure. In their way. But this? Is different. I am talking about after Moriarty made you jump from this roof. How John Watson was a shell of a goddamned man, unable to speak to anyone at your funeral, unable to function for months, unable to hold a job. Fuck, mate, I’ve seen widowed spouses married for fifty years better able to cope than John did after you ‘died.’ I was sick every fucking day waiting to hear he’d taken that illegal Sig of his and put it in his mouth and..”

 

“Stop. Please.” It was barely a whisper. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with shock. “Please.”

 

Sherlock stood and fled, leaving all of his notes and crime scene evidence behind.

 

~~~

 

Greg sighed, then looked up at me and smiled a little shyly.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said all of that,” he said, “but I couldn’t watch him ‘kill himself’ again. And those two. Are they ever going to get it together? Surely I can’t be the only one who sees it right? In spite of all of John’s ‘not gay?’”

 

All that time of arguing with myself about whether or not to speak, and there it was. Done. Thanks Greg. I had so far not shown a great aptitude for timing or tact, so it was probably just as well. I looked at Greg, and hoped he could see my grateful admiration.

 

I was still a little sniffly after the emotional exchange that Greg and Sherlock had just had, so I laughed a little ruefully as I said, “Oh no, I’ve seen it for a long time. But what can you say, really. Well. I guess  you   just said.  I   was the one who didn’t know what to say. I guess you must just always know what to say and when to say it…” I was somewhere in my subconscious aware that I was babbling. Why was I doing that? Really, just too much had happened. How could I be expected to be sensible in these conditions?

 

Greg seemed pleased by this. “Really? Do you think so?” He smiled at me again. He really was awfully attractive.

 

I smiled back, but didn’t reply.

 

“Molly, would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” Greg asked.

 

My cheeks suddenly felt warm. The whole room suddenly felt too warm. “I would, thank you. Let me just gather up Sherlock’s things here. He’ll want them later.”

 

~~~

 

Another list I should have made:

 

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade

 

1\. The night of the Highly Educational Christmas Party of Shame (HEPCoS). I really hardly registered at the time how very kind Greg was to me. And how appreciative his glances appeared to be. Boy, how blind I can be! 

 

2\. At the Watson/Morstan wedding. Greg came without a date, and he seemed so sad, except when I was talking to him. And he asked me to dance. Again, he was so kind to me. 

 

3\. He is, as I said, quite attractive. Not a sociopath. However, not a complete idiot like. Well. Some people we could mention who were frequently an embarrassment to be with in public (Hello, Meat Dagger. WTF?)  And kind to me, as I keep on saying, but not so kind as to be  boring. He’s a DI, after all, which means he’s got a bit of an edge to him. Edges are good. I think they can be very, very good.

 

Yes, I think I’d really like to see where things could go here. Besides out for  coffee that is.

 

~~~

 

I waited a day or two to see if Sherlock would come to Barts for his notes and other...well, whatever it was...looked like bits of cloth, hair, and other bits and pieces from the crime scene in bags. He didn’t. I texted him, and he ignored me. I called his mobile, and it went to voice mail. Called again. Voice mail.

 

I worried. Because that’s what I do. Now what? Give him his space?

 

Of course, now I had someone to ask.

 

“Take it to 221B, if you’re worried, and call me if anything is amiss. I know there’s nothing to really be concerned with on the Moriarty front, because I’m sure his brother has the place crawling with surveillance cameras. If anything like that had happened, we would know. But I haven’t heard from him either, and I was going to go down there myself if he didn’t text or ring me back today, just to make sure he was still alive. Unless you’d rather I did it myself,” Greg said.

 

“No, I’ll do it. It will make me feel better to peek in on him and say hi. I felt bad about prying the other day,” I replied.

 

“You’re not just trying to avoid seeing me, are you?” Greg said, jokingly.

 

“Of course not, not at all! Don’t be silly.”

 

“We still on for tonight?” He asked, “7 PM?”

 

“Absolutely,” I said, feeling the warmth of anticipation in my belly.

 

“Great, see you then.” He said, sounding happier than I’d ever heard him. 

 

And  I made him feel that way. 

 

Yes, I could really get used to all  of this.

 

~~~

 

The door to 221B was slightly ajar. “Hello?” I called lightly. There was no response. I started up the stairs and could see the the upper door was likewise ajar. I reached into my pocket and held my mobile ready in case I needed to call Greg for help. I began  trying to be quiet, just in case there was trouble when I got up to the flat.

 

I eased open the upper door and looked in.

 

I was less than prepared for what I saw, but breathed a sigh of relief. It was just John and Sherlock. They appeared to have just been arguing, or to have been at least been having a serious conversation. Both of their faces were streaked with tears.

 

Then I saw what I was really interrupting. 

 

“John, I’m so sorry. I had no idea--I didn’t know...I’m just--so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

 

“Sherlock. How, can think you still need to apologize? Knowing what I now know…”

 

My breath caught as John practically fell into his arms and then they were kissing, John’s hands moving into the back of Sherlock’s hair to lovingly cup the back of his head, Sherlock’s hands moving in what looked like shaky disbelief to John’s face. The kiss began slowly, almost as if each was afraid of being turned away, but as each realized the other would never do such a thing, it quickly built in intensity as years’ worth of built-up desire found release. 

 

It went on and on, and I realized that I had tears in my eyes watching them around the same time that I realized I had absolutely no right to be there watching them. I decided that I would give the crime scene evidence to Greg after all, and take my leave.

 

~~~

 

Is it a perfect happy ending? Not yet, quite. Moriarty is still on the loose (presumably), John’s still going to have to deal with the fallout from his marriage (presumably). Greg has implied that Mary is no angel and that I shouldn’t waste time shedding a tear for her. Having learned my lesson, I’m not going to pry. However, Sherlock and John are going to be able to deal with the Moriarty situation together now, and all their other situations together (hopefully). I’ve found someone wonderful who is both not-a-sociopath AND not a moron with whom I can be happy (hopefully).

 

So it looks like maybe in the end both Sherlock and I will end up with the people for whom we were really intended from the start.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This work is intended for publication on Ao3 only, and copying or republication elsewhere without my express written consent is prohibited. I do not intend to make any money from the publication of this work, and I don't intend for anyone else to do so either. Sherlock Holmes and other characters are the intellectual property of Arthur Conan Doyle/the writers of BBC Sherlock. This version of the story/characters are my intellectual property.


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